


Observations (In Plain Sight)

by Moonlark



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Heteronormativity, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Trope Subversion/Inversion, but really it's mostly fluff, or as conor so elegantly puts it, some kind of straight people bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlark/pseuds/Moonlark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Conor and Tommy are trying to hide their relationship. It's just that nobody fucking believes them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observations (In Plain Sight)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in about a day, and was pretty tired while doing so, so it's probably rough as hell. But it was fun!
> 
> A note on Tommy's dialogue: I don't know how good his English actually is, so I based his speech patterns off the exchange student I hosted, who spoke very good English, but used very few contractions. I hope it doesn't stunt the flow of the story.

It starts on a relatively ordinary day, nearing the end of the regular season. And of course, it starts with Rusty, because poor Bryan Rust can't seem to make a relationship work without some rather comical interactions.

Conor's almost done changing after practice when Rusty appears from nowhere and grabs his wrist. “Heyyy, Shearsy, my dude, my bro! Can you help me out with something?”

Sounds like Rusty's planning a prank. “Okay, sure. What is it?”

“Well, I’ve got a… question. About girls.”

Conor suppresses a smile. “I'm not really the best person for advice on that.”

Rusty laughs. “Ehhh, you'll find a girlfriend eventually.” He stops, and then starts grinning, like he's had an idea. “Actually…”

There's a sense of unease running up Conor's spine. Is he gonna end up having to deal with some kind of straight people bullshit? Or is Rusty just joking around?

Rusty lowers his voice and leans in close, like he's sharing a secret. “So there's this girl I've been talking to, I've met her a couple times, and I, uh…” He puts a hand on Conor's shoulder.

Well then. Not joking around.

“She’s got a friend of hers. Single. They wanna do a double date. And I was wondering if you could, you know, maybe help a buddy out?”

Ah. _There's_ the straight people bullshit.

It's not actually anywhere near as bullshit as it could be. A double date's fine, and it sounds like the girls are okay with it -- like they're the ones that had the idea. Rusty's obviously counting on him here, and he doesn't want to let him down.

But.

“Sorry, I'm already dating someone.”

Rusty's eyes get real big, real fast. “What? Dude, holy f-- shit, no way. I thought you didn't have a girlfriend! Who is it? Who're you dating?”

“Tommy.”

It's almost comical, the expressions that flash over Rusty's face. He's visibly trying to comprehend what he just heard. It's like watching the facial equivalent of two turning gears getting a nut stuck between them. The power’s still on, but the machinery isn't moving.

This goes on for almost half a minute. Then Rusty’s face settle s into a crinkled smile. “That's a really good excuse, Shears,” he chuckles. “I mean, you could've always just said you didn't wanna do it, but that's so funny I'm not even mad.”

“It's not an excuse, man--”

“Nah, it's alright. If you don't want to go, that's fine. I'll… figure something out.”

Well, now he feels kinda shitty. He's left Rusty high and dry without a paddle, there's gotta be something he can do to help.

Across the locker room, he spots Sunny. He quickly points and says, “Hey, why don't you ask Sunny to do it? Between the face and the accent, your girl's friend’s gonna be impressed.”

Rusty perks up again. “Hey, great idea,” he says, “thanks!” Then he's off across the room to catch a Swede.

Conor shakes his head, finishes putting his pants on, grabs his bag, and heads out toward the parking area. Tommy’s waiting.

***

It's the morning before the second to last game of the regular season, and Sid can't find his stick tape. There's no need to panic yet, because there's plenty of time before the game, but it's still not a good omen.

When the current roll is nowhere to be found, he sighs and turns to head toward the nearest supply closet. He's got a couple spare rolls stashed away in there that no one else is going to touch. At least his routine won't be disrupted in that sense.

He opens the closet's door and flicks on the light.

Shearsy and Knuckles leap away from the closet's center into separate corners.

“...Hi, Captain,” Shearsy says. The look on his face is carefully blank, but the corner of his mouth keeps twitching, like it's trying to wiggle into a smile and he just won't let it.

Sid narrows his eyes. Suspicious. “What are you two doing in here?”

Knuckles grins cheekily. “Um, just... making out.” He adjusts the collar of his shirt.

“Were you?” Strange excuse, that. Very suspicious.

The smile has finally managed to crawl onto Shearsy’s face. He's quite flushed, the high color in his cheeks running down his neck to disappear under a cotton shield. “Yeah,” he says, “just some good old-fashioned, open mouth, french-style smooching.”

Okay, there's gotta be something else going on here. A supply closet is a perfect opportunity for nabbing or altering the materials needed for a wide variety of pranks. He can't tell at first glance what they've taken or messed with, so he has no idea what kind of prank they're planning to pull, but from their barely controlled grins it's probably something good. Hopefully.

Actually, probably not. But if a rookie can prank, that's a comfortable, well-adjusted rookie, and that's what's important.

With that in mind, Sid simply says, “Well, you do you,” and steps back outside the closet, ignoring the eruption of giggles that happens as soon as he closes the door.

It's all fine. Just as long as whatever prank they pull isn't on him.

***

The day after the Penguins eliminate the Rangers, Conor and Tom stay in bed till noon, simply because they can. They have the day off, and there's nowhere they have to be, so they feel perfectly justified in just cuddling up against each other on the soft queen bed in Conor's hotel suite. It's really comfortable, warm, and pleasant, but they can't sleep forever. Besides, there are things they should talk about.

“A couple days ago,” Conor starts, “I kind of let something slip. Like, not anything major, but… Wilso asked me who I was texting and I just said you without thinking. He didn't seem to, like, catch on or anything, but I was still a bit scared.”

“Well, of course he did not catch on. When has Wilso been an observant one?”

“That's unfair to Wilso. The rest of the team notices things about as well as him: rarely.”

“They are oblivious,” Tom laughs quietly. “We could go to an event as each other's plus one and they would not realize.”

Conor smiles. “True.” He pauses, considering his words, then plunges ahead. “But what if, like, someone who didn't know did find out? On the team. Or if we told someone. Would you…”

Tom slides an arm under Conor's shoulders and pulls him closer. “I would be fine with being out to the team. They are not going to be upset about it, hm? No one treats Hags any differently.”

Conor sighs. “Yeah, that's true. And I'm fine with it too, just not quite ready for the greater hockey world to know.”

Tom's quiet for a moment, then says, “Shaw?”

Conor nods, exhales shakily. “There are others out there who agree with the type of things expressed behind… that language, what he said. A lot of them, especially in sports. I… don't want that targeted on us.” He pauses. “Still, sometimes I feel kind bad about not coming out, like I'm lying--”

“We do not owe anyone a coming out,” Tom says fiercely, pulling Conor even closer, until he's practically lying on top of the German. “No one is entitled to our privacy. Our lives are our lives. We have the right to put ourselves and our safety and comfort first.”

Conor tucks his head under Tom’s chin. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“At last, he admits it!”

“Oh, fuck off,” Conor says fondly, rolling off of Tom. “And thanks.”

“Any time,” Tom says, reaching down to tangle his fingers with Conor's. He brings their entwined hands up to his mouth and softly kisses each of Conor's knuckles.

“I do not want to lose you,” he whispers.

Conor nods and tightens his grip on Tom’s hand. “I’m not gonna ever let go.”

They lie there for a few moments, side by side, and then Tom laughs.

“What?” Conor asks.

“I was just thinking that if our team has not noticed already, I am not even sure they would realize if we tried to come out to them.”

Conor sits up. “Oh my god. Wait, no, you know what? I don't think we've properly examined the full potential of this situation. They're so oblivious, so wouldn't it be funny to see just how much they don't notice? I'd like to know just how far we can get before someone finally realizes.”

Tom props himself up in an elbow. “Do you mean, drop hints?”

“Yeah. Be obvious. Be sappy. Give not one single fuck. See how long it takes for them to notice. This is, like, the best prank idea we've ever had.”

Tom grins and presses a kiss on Conor's cheek. “Less sneaking around? Playing mind games? Count me in.” He moves to kiss Conor again, and this time, Conor turns his head, too, and meets the kiss full on.

***

Plenty of family members show up during Round 1, and by the time they leave the Rangers broken and beaten in five games, there's a good feeling in the air. Phil can't stop smiling, which he would have thought unusual until he came to the Pens (back in Toronto, he hadn't really done much in the smiles department). In Pittsburgh, though, it's practically the norm. There's always someone (and usually someones) on the team grinning like an idiot.

Amanda's managed to fly in for the weekend, which only makes it better. She's been studying like crazy, getting ready for bc finals, but it's great to have her around, especially since their parents and Blake won't make it there until Games 3 and 4 of Round 2, and who knows how those will go. 

Two days before the second round starts, the players, families, and staff all head out to what's billed as a small celebration at Sid’s huge house. It does feel small, not because there aren't many people (there kind of are) but because it's a fairly tame atmosphere. It's just one series. Just four wins. They've got so much farther to go.

After a while, both Kessels end up contentedly toward the edge of things, out on the luxurious space that one might term a patio. Phil’s watching Hags out of the corner of his eye, and Amanda is periodically snapping her girl Noora, keeping updated on the happenings in Minnesota.

“So,” Amanda says eventually.

“So?” Phil responds. It's how they've started conversations since Amanda was old enough to carry them. If Blake were here, they'd have the third “So” and things would be perfect, but as it is, two is pretty good.

Amanda hesitates, then says, “Is it just me or do Sheary and Kuhnhackl seem really close? Like… reeeaaally close?”

Phil blinks and turns toward her. He's not one hundred percent sure what she's getting at. “They're good friends, yeah. Pretty close.”

Amanda laughs. “Just good friends, huh? Pretty close? Just guy being dudes, bros being buddies, rookies being teammates?”

Okay, now he's really confused. “Um… yeah?”

Behind him, there's a strange choking sound. Phil swivels around, and sees Shearsy by the edge of the patio, looking practically delighted, even as he tries to stop furiously coughing.

“Sorry, sorry, just got some water,” he stops to cough again, “down the wrong way.” The poor kid sounds like he's trying to hack up a lung. Knuckles is right behind him, thumping his back in a well-meaning but ultimately useless attempt to help. When that doesn't help, he practically drags Shearsy toward the doors back inside.

Before they make it inside, Shearsy throws a thumbs up in Amanda's direction. “Just rookies being teammates,” he grins, then starts coughing again.

Well, add that to the list of things Phil doesn't understand. He shakes his head. He needs another drink. Or a hot dog.

***

In DC, they tie the series at one in Game 2. It's a much needed win -- they definitely didn't want to be down two-nil to the President's Trophy winners -- but it's overshadowed by the fact that Olli hasn't made an appearance since that hard hit. No one's spoken it yet, but the word ‘concussion’ is on everyone's mind, and there's a slight air of tense, morbid anticipation, of trying to prepare for the worst possible news to appear.

Kris is sitting in the hotel lobby, trying to keep from getting up and pacing like a trapped animal. Flower’s next to him, smiling down at the video call he's got going with Vero and resting one hand on Kris’s thigh, grounding him with a touch. In a pair of armchairs across from them, Cully is reading a book on the history of cancer (although he seems to be taking a lot longer than usual to turn each page) and Bones is somehow powering through two different crosswords at the same time. Kris strongly suspects the beard is doing the second one entirely on its own.

None of them want to be alone or closed off in a room right now. Not when they don't yet know how Olli is. Not when they can't stop imagining what could have, what might have, what may have happened. Not when that could happen to them, any time--

Kris grits his teeth. _Merde_ , he's gotta stop thinking like that. Running around in his own head, zeroing in on one thing, replaying it over and over until it's too big and all he can focus on. He needs -- a way out. He needs a distraction.

Across the lobby, the doors to the elevator open. Kris looks up just in time to see Shearsy yank Knuckles out of the way of the housekeeping cart he was about to run into. Knuckles, who seems to make a habit of not looking where he's going off the ice, can't halt his momentum in his off-balance position and practically bodyslams Shearsy into the wall. They go down in a heap.

Kris cracks up.

Comedy gold is a welcome distraction indeed.

By the time the two rookies get themselves upright and sorted, all four of the older players are watching and trying not to laugh. It's like daytime comedy. It's beautiful. It's the funniest thing Kris has seen in years.

“Keep the checking on the ice, kids,” Bones chuckles.

“But that was so much fun,” Shearsy says sarcastically. “I always love going down in a heap.”

“You love going down?” Flower teases. “Good to know.”

“Also good to see you rookies dressing better for a change,” Kris throws in. Shearsy is wearing a nice white tee that does his smaller frame a lot of justice, and Knuckles has a light blue polo on that still shows creases from ironing and folding, yet frames his shoulders elegantly. Add in their jeans, which are definitely on the skinny side, and Shearsy's glasses, and it's almost like they're trying to look good.

They're definitely up to something.

“Where’re you going?” Cully asks.

“We have a date,” Tom replies.

That gets Kris to look up with surprise. “Here?” Any girl they meet in DC better be ready to do long distance. “With who?”

Shearsy laughs and tries to sling his arm around Knuckles' shoulders, which doesn't exactly work since Knuckles is half a foot taller than him. “Each other,” he grins.

Knuckles smiles guilelessly and tucks his arm around Shearsy's waist so they're entirely pressed together. He leaves a quick, smacking peck on the side of Shearsy's head. Shearsy scowls in return.

Kris suppresses a sigh and a smile. So it's gonna be more of this. “Sorry, we’re busy dating” seems to be the go-to excuse they're using these days. It's original, and pretty funny, but it’s probably gonna start feeling a bit overused soon. If they keep it up for much longer, someone might start to believe them.

It's still funny, though. For now.

“Don't stay out too late,” Cully says, deadpan expression locked on.

“Okay, dad,” Knuckles throws back, and then the two rookies are gone, out the front door of the hotel, off to their “date”, or whatever it is. The older players watch them as they go, then burst out laughing again.

“So much humor. Such perseverance. Such dedication to their story,” Flower says proudly, pretending to wipe away a fake tear.

“They're gonna be such great pranksters someday.”

***

The mindset of the team throughout the playoffs has been to keep moving, shrug things off. They win? Nice. They still have more games to play, though. They lose? Oh well. They've got another game in a couple days, and they're gonna work hard to win that one. It's a down-to-earth mindset, very practical and blunt, and it's worked well for them so far.

Now, that doesn't mean they don't have fun. The Game 7 win over the Lightning is a pretty big moment. Not the end of the road, but still a nice feeling. They're going to the Stanley Cup Final.

The  _Stanley. Cup. Final_.

Conor has to keep pinching his own arm to remind himself that it's real.

He's sitting in a booth in their standard bar in downtown Pittsburgh, wedged tightly between Horny and Tom. It makes him feel smaller than usual, but it also means he can casually lean sideways and rest his head on his boyfriend's shoulder.

It's relatively calm, for a night out. No one really feels like partying. Rather, they're sticking together, enjoying the rest before the final push, the calm before the storm. There's still one more series to go.

“Hey, you want another drink?” Tom asks. His hair smells of Conor's own shampoo. The slight wheat fragrance mingles wonderfully with the underlying soft scent that Conor has come to recognize as purely, uniquely Tom.

God, he smells... almost… intoxicating.

Conor closes his eyes and inhales, then decides to be a Boston cliche and whispers, “Get me a Sam Adams?”

Tom nods and slides out of the booth. Conor immediately starts missing his solid warmth pressed against his side, and tries to hold on to the memory of that familiar scent for as long as he can.

Eventually, he opens his eyes again.

Oh shit.

Across the table, Hags is staring at him, one eyebrow raised and still like a poised, yet inquisitive statue.

Conor jolts out of his shock, smiles, and does his best to convey “Yes, your gaydar’s on point,” in a facial expression. He's not sure how it's received, but Hags must understand something, since he shrugs and raises his IPA in a subtle toast.

Conor reaches for his glass and returns the gesture, blatantly not caring about the fact that his own glass is completely empty. Someone's finally noticed, he realizes. It feels like more of a triumph that he had expected.

Hags’ attention is quickly recaptured by the elaborately established joke Phil is telling. Conor listens for a bit, waits for the punchline (which ends up being a surprisingly unexpected Trump drag). Then he taps out of the conversation again, content to sit in warm silence and listen to the voices of his teammates.

Tom slides back in beside him. “Feels like home,” he says, and Conor is happy to realize that he couldn't agree more.

***

“I can't believe the whole team hasn't figured it out yet,” Muzz says from where he's sprawled out on the couch in the living room section of Conor's hotel suite. He waves a hand over at Tom in the huge armchair, and then Conor in the kitchenette.

It's the day between Game 1 and Game 2, and they’re tired from the morning's practice. This deep in the playoffs, everyone's harboring some multicolored, strangely placed bruised, and so, between games, most players just want to rest. This is why they're simply lying around the suite, with the air conditioner turned up and the sounds of HGTV in the background.

Conor looks up from the cutting board full of potatoes. “I know, right? I mean, you proved that straight people can actually see us. You figured it out in no time. What’s taking them so long?”

Muzz thumps his hand against the armrest by his head. “Well, to be fair, you both tried to get my advice on it, so I kind of had a slight advantage.”

Tom snorts. “Yes, we pretty much came out and told you.”

Conor picks up another potato and starts peeling it.“But we told them, too, and look what's happened now. Nothing. They didn't believe us. They still don't know -- shit!” He swears as the knife slips, turning the half-peeled potato into something resembling modern art.

Muzz sighs. “I mean, I'm not sure I'd believe it either, except firstly I was watching the whole falling for each other thing as it happened, and secondly I walked in on you two doing things I will never be able to forget.”

“We were not doing much at all,” Tom protests.

“If that's your definition of not much, I'd like to see what you think much is. Actually, on second thought, no I wouldn't. I'm already scarred enough.”

Conor's trying really hard not to laugh. This potato’s already messed up enough, and he doesn't want to lose a finger. “Dude. We were literally just making out. With hands in pants.”

“Yes, but the _noises_!” Muzz shudders. “I never wanted to know what my teammates sound like when they're jerking each other off!”

“That is your fault for walking in on us,” Tom says blithely.

Muzz drapes an arm dramatically across his eyes. “Uuuuuuuuugggghhhhhhh. Kuhns, you're paying for my brain bleach.”

“Why me? Why not Conor?”

“Because you were the one making him… _moan_ … like _that_.”

“How else should I have made him moan?”

"How about not when I'm in earshot?"

“But he sounds so good!”

“I'm right here,” Conor reminds them. “And are either of you gonna help me cut these potatoes up?”

Tom obediently stands and comes over to the counter, taking the knife and cutting board Conor hands him. “Cut them into cubes,” Conor says, grabbing another potato and starting to peel it.

Tom looks at the potato Conor had handed him, and then stops. “Um. How do I cube this?”

That seems to Conor like a fairly stupid question until he looks up and realizes--

It's the mangled modern art potato.

Conor stares at it for a minute, regretting the very moment he decided to try making his mother's chowder, and then closes his eyes.

“You know what? Just. Just fuck it up.”

***

It takes three tries to figure out the right amount of salt to put in the chowder, and entirely too many potatoes. Muzz repeatedly refers to Conor as “Chef Mediocre” until he's finally wrangled into chopping carrots, Tom almost burns his hand with hot water splashing out of the pot, and Conor's hands are gonna smell like raw shellfish for ages. Somehow, they manage to use almost every single dish Conor's mother had given him, and the floor is covered in a mixture of potato peelings, flour, and dropped corn. Conor actually has to say, “We are going to successfully make this chowder, so help me God!” at which point Muzz finally cracks up completely and leaves, heading back to his own room with tears of laughter streaming down his face.

The final batch, however, turns out pretty good. 

**Author's Note:**

> Straight boys no homo inside their own minds. You have to break the layers of no homo they've built up if you want to get through to them.
> 
> Case in point: throughout that whole first conversation, between Rusty and Shearsy, Conor isn't wearing any pants. Surprise! Pantsless Sheary! 
> 
> Also, afaik Amanda Kessel did not fly in for Game 5 of the first round. But it's fiction, so in this universe she did.


End file.
